I Sing
by Sineala
Summary: The Romans have strange ideas about poetry. Fortunately, Esca is not a Roman. Esca/Marcus slash.


**SUMMARY:** The Romans have strange ideas about poetry. Fortunately, Esca is not a Roman.

**PAIRING:** Esca/Marcus.**  
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**RATING: M **for sexuality.**  
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**NOTES:** This story was originally written for a prompt on **the_eagle_kink** on LiveJournal that requested Marcus secretly writing Esca sappy love poetry. Thanks to Lysimache for help with the scansion and to Carmarthen and Savvierthanu for beta and summary help. Aeneid IX.427, which Marcus quotes, obviously belongs to P. Vergilius Maro (and is public-domain; the translation is my work), but I wrote all of Marcus' poetry myself.

I am only posting some of my fanfiction to this site, due to FFN's content restrictions; the rest can be found at **archiveofourown DOT org SLASH users SLASH Sineala**. Also, if anyone here is looking for more Eagle fanfiction **ninth-eagle DOT livejournal DOT com** is Ninth Eagle, where there is a whole lot of stuff by a whole lot of people.

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><p><strong>I Sing<strong>

He found it in Marcus' room. Marcus had gone into town for some unspecified reason — he went into Calleva alone frequently, lately — and so Esca was cleaning Marcus' room. Not because he had to — Esca's mind was very clear about this distinction — but because it pleased him to have the place clean. He was a slave no longer, after all. The only tasks Marcus, as his patron, ever set him involved the horses. But they were all fed for the morning, and Marcus' uncle was playing Stephanos in endless games of latrunculi, so no one needed him for the rest of the day. Esca hated latrunculi.

And, if he could be honest, the place did need cleaning. For someone who had so recently been a soldier, Marcus had an appalling habit of leaving his things in disarray. The bedding was a mess. It was always a mess. Esca suspected, from all those nights of having slept next to Marcus, out in the lands of the Selgovae and the Epidii, that Marcus still thrashed about in his sleep — bad dreams, no doubt full of old memories of old battles, or perhaps now more recent ones. He had never brought himself to ask about them. Nor had he offered to climb into bed and soothe his fears in other, more enjoyable ways. Marcus was so... Roman. Esca knew he would say no. But that did not keep Esca from wanting him.

There were his sandals — his indoor sandals, naturally, since Marcus was of course wearing boots to town — thrown in different places across the floor, and over there were two of the elder Aquila's scrolls. Whatever could Marcus have been doing reading in here? The light was best in the atrium, at the side of the impluvium, and he knew Marcus knew that. Truly the man was mysterious. Esca squinted at the titulus of the nearest; he could read, some, but this one was in Greek, and he had not learned that language. The ribbon on the other scroll said _Ars Poetica_, and Esca frowned.

It was unlike Marcus to have an interest in poetry.

Oh, the Romans had poetry, Esca was sure of that. He had occasionally heard the elder Aquila discussing it with friends over dinner. The greatest songs, the ones they liked most, were grand tales of gods and wars; they had them in Greek and Latin, but from what Esca had gleaned, they were proudest of the Latin one, the _Aeneid_. From the bits they had recited, it sounded magificent indeed, full of battles and stirring speeches.

If it had been a song of the Brigantes, the finest bards would compete for the honor to sing it, and all would hear them tell the tale at the best feasts, with mead aplenty, and it would be an evening of rejoicing. Because Romans were Romans, they forced their children to learn huge swathes of it by heart, and the schoolmasters beat them when they forgot any.

There were other kinds of poetry, too, still more disgustingly Roman; Aquila's sometime guest Placidus seemed particularly fond of a kind they had among the elite in Rome where the poet stood up and sang an insulting song about a particular person, and — for reasons Esca was still unclear about — was somehow not summarily attacked and beaten for his offense by the work's subject.

It was very hard to believe that Marcus might enjoy any of these things. Esca had asked him once about poetry, about this _Aeneid_ they all treasured, hoping Marcus would tell him some more, would sing him his favorite lines. Esca had always liked songs at feasts, and he had thought that perhaps hearing poetry from the mouth of his friend would be just as excellent, for he did love Marcus.

_I find I do not remember it well_, Marcus had said, but he had not met Esca's eyes and Esca had known he'd been lying. _And I never had a favorite part, when I did remember it. I have never cared for the stuff. Besides, I do not have the voice of a poet_.

Esca had been disappointed, Marcus had changed the subject, and that had been that. But now, apparently, Marcus was reading about poetry. It was all very strange.

Clutching the scrolls in his hand, he turned to make one final check of the room before going to put the scrolls back in the tablinum, and that was when he noticed it. There was a writing-tablet, wedged under the bed, between the straw mattress and the bed itself. The corner of it was just barely sticking out; Esca might almost have missed it. Was Marcus so messy that he would read things and then shove them under the bed? Esca sighed.

He had to put the scrolls down to pull the tablet out, and he considered it, annoyedly, once he had it in his hands. It was probably some instruction that the elder Aquila had left for Marcus, some matter that was important at one time but had since passed. It would be very likely for Marcus to keep such a tablet and forget about it. Well, he would just return it, now, so that it might be effaced and reused. Perhaps Marcus had already cleaned it. So Esca swung the tablet open at its hinges, just to check.

The first word was his own name, and Esca very nearly dropped the tablet in shock.

Or it could be "food," a tiny part of his mind observed, frantically searching for an explanation. Yes, perhaps it was a letter about food, perhaps about the details of some dinner-party or other such thing. But the hand was not Stephanos', and he would have scribed such a thing on Aquila's behalf. And if this was here amongst Marcus' things, it must be Marcus' writing. But why would Marcus write about him? There was only one way to find out, and that was to read it.

The words were pressed deeply into the wax, with a heavy hand:

_Esca, te amo multum et cupio sed non quoque amas me.__  
>ardeat ignis sic, mors veniet propere.<em>

He read the words aloud, quietly, haltingly. "Esca, I love and desire you very much, but you do not even love me. Let the fire burn thus. Death will come soon."

Esca clutched the tablet in disbelief for long moments more, and then hurriedly slammed the halves of it together and pushed it back under the mattress, lest Marcus come in right now, home from Calleva proper, and see him reading this.

His face felt hot and he stared dizzily at his empty hands. Marcus... loved him? Marcus, who insisted he had the mind of a soldier through and through, as if having been a warrior meant one had no care for fine things or matters of the heart... was writing him poetry. And this was not a song of a battle, nor a cruel insult. This was love. Marcus burned for him, here, in his own words.

How long had Marcus been doing this, Esca wondered, how long had he felt like this and said nothing? Had he been writing this in the mornings, while Esca was out with the horses, watching him, admiring him? Or had he been carving this at night by the poor light of a candle, while all the while Esca had been so close by, most likely with his own hands on himself, less eloquently picturing the desire they might share? How long ago could they have had each other?

He left the scrolls where he found them and twisted up the blankets again. He did not want Marcus to know he had been here, after all.

What would he do now? What would they do?

* * *

><p>The answer, as it turned out, was: nothing. Or at least, nothing different.<p>

Marcus returned from town slightly before dinner-time, acting... perfectly normal. Marcus took the honored place, on the couch next to his uncle's, and Esca the third couch. He stared at Marcus, considering.

Marcus reached out, snagged a piece of fish, and gave Esca a friendly smile. There was nothing unusual about it — no hint that behind that smile was a man who was now scratching out his hidden passions into wax — but Esca went hot all over with the knowledge of it.

"How was Calleva?" Esca asked, quickly, to cover his own guilty thoughts before they could show on his face.

Marcus swallowed the morsel of fish, seeming not to notice. "Fine. As it usually is. I think I might go into town again, tomorrow."

"Should I go with you?" He wanted to spend time with Marcus — of course he did, he always did — but the desire was now twisted up with terrified anticipation, the weight of Marcus' secrets hanging between them. Should he act? What would Marcus do, if he just kissed him? Right now, at this very moment? Oh, all right, maybe he should wait until after dinner, or at least until his uncle left—

But Marcus shook his head. "No, thank you, that won't be necessary."

They finished the rest of the meal in silence.

That night, alone, Esca pictured Marcus writing more poetry, the words all obscene and wanton things that Marcus never said and pretended he didn't hear when other people said them. He came, trembling, moaning, with his other hand shoved over his mouth to drown out the noise. Half of him hoped Marcus heard him anyway.

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><p>The next day Marcus was gone again. He hadn't even been around when Esca came to bid him good day, as a client should to his patron. He would almost accuse the man of deliberately avoiding him. Just as soon as he'd left, Esca hurried to Marcus' bedroom and pulled the tablet out from its hiding place. Yesterday's poem was gone, the wax smoothed out, but there was a new one on the other side:<p>

_te vidi incumbentem, nocte fui sine somno.__  
>non aderas mecum, sed volui te animo.<em>

And Esca read this one, too. "I saw you reclining; at night I was sleepless. You were not with me, but in my mind I wanted you."

He smiled at the tablet, dazedly. This was about last night, he knew. Marcus had looked at him over dinner, just as he always did, but then gone to carve out his secret thoughts. Had they been thinking of each other at the same time? Did Marcus write one each day? Would there be one tomorrow? The day after that?

So enraptured was he that he did not mark the voices in the atrium until they were too close.

"—back so soon, my boy?"

"No, Uncle." There was the sound of feet coming closer. "I only realized I forgot my money-pouch, and it will be hard to go to the shops without coin, eh?"

And then Marcus' tread stopped at the curtain, and, horrified, Esca realized it was too late—

Marcus stepped in, and his face furrowed in confusion. "Esca, what are you—"

Then his gaze focused on the tablet that Esca was holding, and Marcus' face went bright red and then pale as chalk.

"I didn't mean to read it," Esca said, quickly, the last words he'd imagined himself saying. Certainly not anything Marcus would want to hear. He could have told Marcus he hadn't read it, hadn't even opened it. "I just found it, and—"

Marcus made a sound like a man dying. "I have to go."

He turned and was gone from the doorway, and before Esca could really think about what he was doing, he was after him. Marcus' uncle was calling out something, sounding bewildered, but Esca paid it no mind as he burst out of the house, following Marcus, who was already at a run.

Marcus was not heading to town, but rather, he was sprinting across the fields. His stride was longer than Esca's, of course, but even now he still limped. Esca hoped he would stop running quickly — he hated to think of Marcus overusing the leg and injuring himself again — and then he cursed himself for continuing to worry about Marcus like that, in the midst of this situation. Still, he would catch up with Marcus eventually, even if it meant Marcus' leg had to give out first.

He could not tell how long they ran, but even he was tired by the time he saw Marcus struggle, falter, and then sit down hard in the grass. Esca slowed and came near him, and he sat down as well.

Marcus' breathing was hard and labored, and he didn't even turn his head to look at Esca. He only drooped lower at his approach.

"You weren't supposed to know." Marcus' voice was raw. "You were never supposed to find out." He was still staring at the ground.

"I know."

What else could he say? He'd figured that out as soon as he read his name. And then he'd read the rest anyway.

"I was avoiding you, you know. Or trying to," Marcus corrected himself, miserably, and something within Esca clenched up to hear it, drowned in a wave of sympathy and pity. "I thought if I could stay away from you more I might not feel— it might go away."

"I thought you didn't like me," Esca said, helplessly. He'd been wondering what he'd done wrong, only to find that the opposite was the truth. He had done nothing, and it was only that Marcus did like him.

Marcus' voice twisted with an awful mockery in it, as though he hated himself and wanted to hurt himself more by saying this. "So—" his mouth quirked— "how many have you read?"

Esca swallowed. "Two. Yesterday, and then today."

"That is—" Marcus scrubbed at his face with his hand and did not finish his sentence. "I suppose I should be grateful; there were worse ones you could have read."

Esca smiled gently. "I did not think you to be that wretched of a poet." He hoped Marcus would take his true meaning by this, that he had liked the poems and the feeling behind them as well. Marcus sounded so ill about this that Esca felt suddenly reticent; Marcus was his friend, and so Esca would rather not hurt him more than he already had. What could he say that would cause him no more pain?

"Not that." Marcus turned redder and was still not looking at him. "I fear there have been others where I was... more base. In my unwanted expressions of affection."

He had to do something. He reached out and fit his hand across Marcus'. His skin was hot to the touch.

"Marcus," he said, pleading. "I liked the poetry."

And Marcus — perhaps because of the touch — finally looked at him. There was disbelief all across his face, as if he did not quite think Esca had just said that. "Did you?"

Esca nodded, trailing his fingertips along the back of Marcus' hand, up his wrist to his arm. "I liked it very much." He paused. "Especially the subject matter."

Marcus' lips parted, amazed, and that was when Esca leaned in, brought his hands up to Marcus' face and kissed him. Marcus made a high, keening whimper in his throat, wrapped his arms around Esca, and kissed him back. His mouth was sweet, and the staggered pounding of Esca's heart was almost, but not quite, the beat of a poem.

There were better rhythms to be found, though, and Marcus smiled at him as Esca pushed him back onto the grass and lay atop him. They kissed more and moved and slid, each against the other, faster and faster until Marcus threw his head back into the grass, his throat one long, beautiful, trusting line, and he panted Esca's name, pushing himself roughly up against Esca's hip, and that was it. Then he was grinning with delight and taking Esca in hand, and it was only a few moments later before Esca too was groaning and spending himself across Marcus' fist.

He let himself go, falling onto Marcus, and Marcus held him until they could both breathe again.

"I see you have a poet's sense of timing, with your skilled hands, at just the right meter," Esca murmured into Marcus' neck, and he pulled his head back just so he could see Marcus blush. "Your fingers, especially, those are very fine." He knew just enough of Greek and of poetry to know there was a pun there, and so he made it.

But Marcus only reddened a little more and laughed with him anyway. "I am glad you think so."

"Is it in your mind to try more things than hands?" Esca asked, daringly, hopefully. He should not hope, he told himself. He knew how Romans were. He knew how Marcus was.

Marcus' face was bright red now, but his eyes were wide and his mouth set firm, as if he were somehow defying his own shame. "Ah, Esca, you should have seen the other poems."

"So write more of them," Esca said and kissed him again.

They kissed more, leisurely, Marcus' hands over him, exploring him, learning him, and he did the same to Marcus. And after a short while Marcus told him of the other poems and their many verses, and then Marcus moved down his body and showed him, and for that Marcus had to stop talking.

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><p>"I lied, you know," Marcus said, lying next to him afterwards, their fingers laced together. His voice was full of sleepy pleasure, but also an odd sort of tension.<p>

Esca rolled to face him, running his other hand down Marcus' chest. "Hmm? About what?"

"When you asked me what poetry I liked, and I said I hardly remembered or liked any." Marcus sounded a little sheepish.

"Ah." Esca smiled, carefully. He must always be very kind with Marcus, he knew, in these matters. "And you would sing some for me?"

Marcus gave a small nod. "It is not— it is not nice, and I do not know that I would say I liked it, exactly. There are no sweet words of love. But it has been in my thoughts, these months since we returned from Caledonia."

And he took a breath, opened his mouth, and began to recite. It was a tale of two warriors of Troy, Nisus and Euryalus, lovers by the sound of it, and Esca found he was intrigued; he had never heard the Romans speak of the nobility of this, of warriors who might love as equals. And why, with one almost as the shield-bearer of the other, it was like a proper tale at last.

Marcus' fingers gripped his hand hard as Marcus started to tell of how the pair made their way to the camp of their enemy, and then Esca realized why Marcus was consumed with this sudden anxiety. As he told it, the pair stole a helm of the enemy, glittering with gold, and then disappeared into the thicket, followed by horsemen—

Esca remembered sliding down rocky hillsides, cold and wet and terrified, always hearing the hounds, and Marcus next to him, clutching the Eagle—

And Euryalus, the one bearing the helm, was caught by the enemy, while the other, Nisus, still hidden in the wood, had watched as his beloved was surrounded. And he threw his spear at the enemy's leader, but too late, too late, the leader drew his sword and fell upon Euryalus.

Marcus' voice shook and broke as he sang out the words Nisus had called to the enemy, to try to save his beloved: "_Me, me, adsum qui feci, in me convertite ferrum—_"

It is I, I! I am here who did it. Turn your swords on me.

Esca put his free hand over Marcus' mouth, his finger against Marcus' lips. He knew how the rest of the story went, now, and he did not need to hear Marcus sing the rest, how both of the men died. No doubt it was noble and tragic and they fell in each other's arms. It was not a story Marcus needed to tell, either.

"Marcus," he said, quietly. "It did not happen like that. Not for us."

He lifted his hand and Marcus gave him a weak smile. "I know. But that does not stop me dreaming it."

Esca squeezed Marcus' fingers tightly, impressing his presence, pushing reality into his skin. "I returned. You needed me and I returned, and we were together. We are together. Remember that. And we are alive, we two, not like in the songs of your poets."

Marcus' eyes were grateful; Esca gave him something he would not have asked for, and Esca watched as Marcus opened his mouth and dared to ask for more.

"Don't leave," he whispered.

"I will not leave you. I am here," Esca said, and he was.

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><p><strong>Fun facts to know and tell:<strong>

The scroll Esca can't read is Aristotle's _Poetics_, in case anyone was wondering.

The poetry Marcus writes Esca is in elegiac couplets (dactylic hexameter, then dactylic pentameter), and it does scan in Latin, at least according to the primary rules of that verse type. It doesn't obey any of the other rules, but let's just say Marcus is a bad poet.

The pun Esca makes toward the end about "fingers" is that the Greek word for "finger" happens to be _dactylos_, which is also the name of the metrical foot Marcus was using in his poetry (it is a very popular foot in Greek and Latin poetry). The dactyl in poetry goes _long short short_, and for some reason the Greeks thought this was also a good description of the relative length of the bones in the finger, starting at the knuckle.


End file.
